f thoroughly
convincing them; but, at the present moment, without utterly condemning
myself, I declare it to be superior to the non-complex coquetry of
Montalais." And the two young girls began to laugh.

La Valliere alone preserved silence, and quietly shook her head. Then,
a moment after, she added, "If you were to tell me, in the presence of
a man, but a fourth part of what you have just said, or even if I were
assured that you think it, I should die of shame and grief where I am
now."

"Very well; die, poor tender little darling," replied Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente; "for if there are no men here, there are at least two
women, your own friends, who declare you to be attained and convicted of
being a coquette from instinct; in other words, the most dangerous kind
of coquette the world possesses."

"Oh! mesdemoiselles," replied La Valliere, blushing, and almost ready to
weep. Her two companions again burst out laughing.

"Very well! I will ask Bragelonne to tell me."

"Bragelonne?" said Athenais.

"Yes! Bragelonne, who is as courageous as Caesar, and as clever and
witty as M. Fouquet. Poor fellow! for twelve years he has known you,
loved you, and yet--one can hardly believe it--he has never even kissed
the tips of your fingers."

"Tell us the reason of this cruelty, you who are all heart," said
Athenais to La Valliere.

"Let me explain it by a single word--virtue. You will perhaps deny the
existence of virtue?"

"Come, Louise, tell us the truth," said Aure, taking her by the hand.

"What do you wish me to tell you?" cried La Valliere.

"Whatever you like; but it will be useless for you to say anything,
for I persist in my opinion of you. A coquette from instinct; in other
words, as I have already said, and I say it again, the most dangerous of
all coquettes."

"Oh! no, no; for pity's sake do not believe that!"

"What! twelve years of extreme severity."

"How can that be, since twelve years ago I was only five years old?
The frivolity of the child cannot surely be placed to the young girl's
account."

"Well! you are now seventeen; three years instead of twelve. During
those three years you have remained constantly and unchangeably cruel.
Against you are arrayed the silent shades of Blois, the meetings when
you diligently conned the stars together, the evening wanderings beneath
the plantain-trees, his impassioned twenty years speaking to your
fourteen summers, the fire of his glances addressed t